


Lord Commander

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Headcanon, M/M, More Fluff, Platonic Romance, Primarch/Astartes relationship, Vespasian is my darling ok and canon never happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 19:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10623540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: Vespasian discovers that none of his many decades of training, in the pursuit of martial perfection, prepared him for a hopeless crush on his own primarch.(Not that that's necessarily a problem.)





	1. Confession

Vespasian was glad that there were none among the ranks who could see into his mind, and the measures he took to calm himself.

Around him, under his command, the massed ranks of men spread in every direction. He could hear some squads chanting, some singing a hymn to victory that was taken up by those closest. Switch channels on the vox and rousing speeches filtered through, odes to a battle yet to be fought. Some chose to stand silent, or in murmured prayer, soothing and focusing eager and bloodthirsty spirits with quiet meditation.

Vespasian’s strategy was much the same, but with a key difference. He sank into memory instead; a memory of a meditation, certainly – but not his own.

A bare chamber, dim and silent, peaceful. A single flame burning behind glass, partially obscured from his view by the figure cross-legged in front of it, wearing only a tunic.

“Come in, Vespasian,” the figure had said softly. “You’re not interrupting.”

Vespasian had given a curt nod, though it couldn’t be seen. “My Lord.”

“Please, no formality. Something is troubling you. Come here, do what you feel.”

He had wavered, as the obedience wrought into him from the genes upwards conflicted with this new instruction and the impulses of his hearts.

In soft steps across the marble floor, utterly distinct from his usual stride, he had approached. And paused. And laid his bare hands on the shoulders of the seated primarch from behind. The warmth of skin and the serene, amused gaze tilted upwards towards him.

“Isn’t that better?”

But he forgot what he had said in reply as the vox spiked to life in his ears with ‘enemy sighted’. And the stillness of the chamber vanished in the rush of war.

\--

He no longer felt that he was being pulled apart, as he had in the beginning.

It had started when he had finished a skirmish, and couldn’t remember whose name he had been shouting.

“He commended me on my decisive charge,” Kaesoron said with a smug grin, and Vespasian didn’t particularly care. He knew that being showered with ephemeral praise wasn’t the reason that the primarch chose to see them all separately.

He almost dreaded what would be said to him, but he still went in and stood to attention. Dark eyes fixed on him for a long while, in a silence so heavy he could hardly bear it.

“I am well aware of your conflict, Commander.”

“My Lord?”

“I know it pains you. You no longer know who is most important.”

He had nothing to say to that, but a shred of pride kept him from lowering his gaze.

“In whose name do you fight?”

“The Emperor, my Lord. We are His sword and His shield.”

“And what about me?”

“You are… our master, our guiding light. The head orchestrating the movements of the body.”

“A head placed on its shoulders by the Emperor. A light raised in the darkness by His hand. To fight for me, you fight for Him. Do you see?”

 “Yes, my Lord.”

“I care little for what you scream at the enemy, as long as you bring the Emperor’s wrath upon them. Which you do admirably.”

“I… thank you….”

The primarch put a gentle hand on his face, and Vespasian welcomed it. It was an acknowledgement of everything he had agonised about, a healing touch that banished the worries. Perhaps it was just his ingrained awe – or perhaps his hearts really had reconciled.

“You think your loyalties are divided, Vespasian, but they are not. Love for me is love for the Emperor and love for our cause.”

“I understand.”

“And as long as you slaughter our foes without mercy, do you really suppose that anyone minds the form that that love takes?”

Vespasian didn’t realise that he had closed his eyes, but they snapped open again at that.

“I didn’t – I don’t mean it was anything… inappropriate, I don’t….”

“You don’t think of me that way, I realise.” A knowing smirk, directed at his expression. “I don’t believe you think of _anyone_ that way.”

“I… no, my lord.”

“I am aware of the nature of your feelings, however - and I will gladly reciprocate.”

Opening his mouth, Vespasian found it empty of words at first. He managed some sort of thanks.

“You would join me in my chambers this evening.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

And that was how it began.

They talked long into the ship’s artificial night, and he was surprised at how easily the casual conversation came to him. Then the primarch suggested that they should retire.

“Of course,” Vespasian said, and rose to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I… pardon, my Lord?”

“Do I need to make it plain? I’m inviting you to my bed, Vespasian.” The commander’s blush was clearly noticeable. “Oh, don’t be afraid. I wouldn’t force you into anything you find unseemly.”

“I’m not afraid. We know no fear.” He wished his mouth wasn’t so dry.

“Then come with me, my dear.”

And, as promised, nothing unseemly befell him. He spent the night curled in close to his beloved primarch, wrapped in peace and an overwhelming feeling of security – distinct from the safety gained from armour or cover, or the surety of command, or the confidence of winning a duel; a deep-rooted instinct that told him _you will come to no harm here_. Highly unusual, given his life so far.

\--

Another time, another engagement, another secret memory as a balm for his soul.

He had been awake for nearly two weeks, but the campaign was done and he was sagging with fatigue, out of the rigid confines of armour. But he still came when summoned – even if his duty here was only to rest.

“On Chemos,” was the offhand comment, “I outgrew the mattresses my family had for beds. I used to sleep on the floor.”

The primarch’s lips touched his forehead gently, and Vespasian couldn’t help but smile as he was gathered in strong arms.


	2. Flowers on Chemos

"I'll tell you about the flowers on Chemos."

Vespasian made a sound of assent that wasn’t strictly required, and rearranged his head. A twin heartbeat occupied his right ear – the _thump-thump_ of the main heart, lazy in its resting state, and an occasional token _bump_ from its auxiliary partner. It was music to him, so much more so than even his own cardiac rhythm; he would be hard pressed to say which was the more vital in keeping him alive. His fingertips lay on the border of his lord’s ribcage, where the thick ribs gave way to core muscles, rising ever so slightly with each breath. On his own body, there was a connection point under there, but the skin he lay on had fewer interfaces for armour. He was forged for war; a raw material in one shape twisted into another with all the fire and pain and effort that such a process took. Primarchs were simply born that way, moulded like soft clay in the hands of their creator. They required a little glazing to finish them off, but that was all. He was a tool in the hands of the Imperium. They were vessels for the Emperor’s power.

“Nothing used to grow there before, you understand. Most of the surface was hostile to life… and most of the dwelling-places were hostile to humanity in their own way. People lived like insects. Scurrying from one task to another. Scattering before a threat. They worked until they died, and left behind just enough children to replace them. And ascending the social ladder simply meant exchanging labour for administration, brown suit for grey – and then one worked there until death. Of course, you know all this.”

It was fairly common knowledge, that much was true – but not many alive now, perhaps none, had ever seen those times. Human lives were short and the gene-seed needed young hosts. Only the exceptional longevity of a primarch could hope to preserve the memory. The accounts he wrote were seen only by select eyes, and only as an example of the civilising force of Imperial discovery.

Vespasian knew that locked within them were the secrets that shaped his commander, but he wasn’t convinced that he wanted to know.

“Where I made planetfall, a spring rose out of the cracked ground. It was immediately co-opted into a source of water for the nearby population – at least those who could reach it. When I left, it was still a drinking fountain… a well for the people. A place of pilgrimage but never a shrine or an ornament.”

A hand stroking the bare stretch between his lumbar and thoracic/cervical armour ports. Idle motion; a privilege afforded to few. Gentle touch; a rarity to Astartes flesh.

“I must have been such a burden to them, until I could work. Four or five years of a child that never stopped growing, never stopped consuming. Like the bird on Terra called the cuckoo. It lays its eggs in another bird’s nest, and if they’re fooled, they raise it as their own. Sometimes it grows to many times their size, and they feed and feed it as it destroys their young and fills their nest with its own body. I saw a picture of one in a book once, and almost wept because I recognised myself.

I was a cuckoo in their nest, but I wanted to help them. So I was flawless. So I couldn’t be faulted, and disposed of to save on resources. Twice as much work, three times as much… whatever I was capable of. I was their vassal so I could become their leader.”

“I can’t imagine they ever would have killed you,” Vespasian muttered into his side.

A low chuckle which came through the ribs to his ear, temporarily drowning out the steady, contented heartbeat.

“Then you’ve never been a scapegoat in a mass of desperate people, my dear. You know me as a lofty being indeed – but I was once a child. Not for very long… but nothing lingered for very long there. A few years was all it would take for me to grow into productive age – a few seconds was all it would take for them to tear me down and feast on me as the end to their problems.

“I don’t mean to say that these were barbarians. They were simply _desperate people_. They hadn’t the luxury of past or future. They had nothing they were willing to sacrifice for nebulous promises of _something better_ further down the line.

“I know ‘having nothing to lose’ is a popular phrase… but not in that way. The only thing we had left to lose was our lives, so anything preserving the state of being was guarded jealously. I upset that. I was change, I was _risk_. I was _worse_ than nothing…. Where was I?”

“The flowers, my lord,” Vespasian said. He could have dispensed with the honorific, but was reluctant – even lying half-clothed and half-asleep with no company whatsoever. The title was more than protocol. You are mine and I am yours.

“Yes, the flowers…. Nothing would grow. That was known. A certain amount of plants could be produced hydroponically inside the culturing houses, but only for food. They were processed together with everything else.

“But seeds survive. Some of them have quite extraordinary endurance. And near that site where the water sprang up – along the valley where a path was worn with the feet of the people in their radiation-proof clothing – there must have been some trace of a native plant. Because I came there one day with the tanks to fill and in the dirt there was a clump of something like moss or heather, but with tiny white flowers shivering in the wind. The whole artefact was barely bigger than my palm. Everyone crowded round to look at it and I was so filled with joy to see life, opportunistic growing _life_ , starting on this wasted planet.

“And then someone asked what it was.”

His head tilted to rest a cheek against Vespasian’s brow.

“I forgot that they had never seen anything like it. I hadn’t either, but I had _memory_ of it – or some kind of knowledge implanted at my creation, somehow. We all just stayed there in a circle, with the dusty wind whipping our backs and me on my knees beside the plant. I had to tell them that you couldn’t eat this, or produce much useful from it, but….

“I had to guard that plant, with a little help from a few who understood. It took a long time before the surface was truly able to support _human_ life… but I think it made them realise that things could be improved. And probably something about beauty as well – but not for a while. One can’t just _appreciate_ a form of aesthetics one has never seen before….”

“And that’s why you like moss?” Vespasian guessed.

“Oh, you heard me saying that to Sanguinius?” the primarch smiled and rubbed his shoulder. “Yes, that is why I like moss. It has such _tenacity_ – where others see a ruined fortress and despair, it clings to the surface and improves the whole place. It lives, and brings more life with it.”

“Just like the crusade.”

“No, my dear. All too often, our conquests are what _create_ the ruins for the moss to colonise…. But this is the will of the Emperor; sometimes it is necessary to destroy in order to build.”

“And does this trouble you, my lord?”

“I never said that it did – and why would I burden others with such concerns?”

Vespasian sensed that this wasn’t something to be talked about. Perhaps one of the other primarchs could engage their brother in lively discussion. It would be akin to insubordination for him to insist on a debate here and now.

“Sometimes it’s necessary to lose in order to gain,” the primarch said, in a distant tone that unsettled him somewhat. He kept his ear to that heartbeat and closed his eyes, and let the statement rest as if it was an innocent observation.

One hand closed over his and the other on the back of his neck, warm weight of a being powerful enough to tear down walls.

“I wouldn’t want it to be necessary to lose you. I couldn’t….”

“One day it might happen,” Vespasian said, because he knew he had to.

“No.” A denial whispered to the universe – and they might have to wait centuries for its reply.


	3. Sanctum

Past the Phoenix Guard at the door; no mean feat, but utterly attainable for someone of the Lord Commander’s rank. They even nod to him as they withdraw to let him through the ornate doors, which _boom_ softly shut into the silence.

The atrium of the primarch’s chambers; as grandiose a meeting-place as the others on the ship. Hung with banners and trophies more personal than most. Enough to make a junior brother awed and indecorously nervous, but holding little sway over anyone higher up. Being summoned here could mean grave things, certainly, though all pertaining to Legion business and witnessed as any other gathering.

The inner atrium, or drawing-room, with its relative abundance of furniture. Where the primarch usually entertained his brothers (if they were even open to the concept of entertainment: he had little time for those who were not). One could see Horus, pacing in passionate speech, or Sanguinius, resting carefully on a couch with his own backdrop of white feathers, or Ferrus, leaning idly on some masterpiece of design and making free with his own particular brand of blunt observation. A lucky few officers would be permitted entry – the treasured audience with their lord a mark of their status and personal achievement.

The dressing-room, being as it is an arming-chamber also for an avatar of war. The suggestion of something martial and implacable in the armour stands and racks for blade and bolter. The overall abundance of aesthetics, in every aspect of the space – and the enormous mirror on its stand, perfectly placed for every conceivable angle of viewing. None but serfs and the Lord Commanders attend the primarch’s rituals of arming, and they are expected to bring all tactical intelligence with them. Thus, he can descend into the arena of battle prepared and keen, and emerge from its ravages for a moment of quiet reflection as the ceramite plate defending his flesh is peeled away, leaving him as vulnerable as such as being could ever be. The great mirror is a replacement. Once, early on in their history, the glass had lain in shards when the inhuman rage of their lord had shattered it. A bare fist and his blood dripping to the floor and his screamed fury was such that Eidolon and Vespasian both had fled, overwhelmed by the need to do _something_. Neither had spoken about it since then, save for one brief moment as they saw the servitors slotting bright new glass into place in the frame.

(Eidolon had said blankly that Curze made him do it, and Vespasian had refused to offer comment.)

The bathing chamber could be entered from here or from the bedroom, which lies beyond. Nobody from the Legion should ever have cause to cross these thresholds. It is the primarch’s right to be left alone, as far as is possible, while he sleeps or bathes, knowing that at any moment he could be roused to re-assume command.

The bath is a huge thick-sided basin of a grey-white and almost luminous stone quarried from the mountains of Chemos, standing central. The fittings are in gold, with swathes of Legion purple here and there. Water pours from the shower head suspended over the middle of the pool, a veritable torrent, like a waterfall. The pool itself is lit within and churns gently, fed from one side as a hot spring would be. The rest of the chamber is comparatively gloomy. The world turning far below under their fleet’s orbit is almost unbearably bright and arid, its silicate sands and twin suns painful to even Astartes eyes. This is a respite from that, in a private place where effects can be acknowledged and wounds examined.

The primarch is not wounded. Vespasian would not forgive himself if that had occurred. He would be sitting in the depths of the ship in self-imposed disgrace. He would likely not be invited here, and could not show his face even with permission being gained.  He would not be carefully shedding his robe and bodyglove, hanging them on a peg, sinking into the pool and letting the heat consume his skin.

The water cascades over and around. Even the legion brothers of the Emperor’s Children, though famed for their vanity, rarely find cause to spend longer than two or three minutes under the showers after an engagement. Time cannot be spared; their duties cannot be suspended for that long. Vespasian spent that customary span in the usual manner, before leaving his men for this.

They both act as if they bathe alone for a few long moments, before a hand reaches out to his and draws him closer. The level of the pool is just above the primarch’s waist, and thus up to his sternum. A displeased hiss and a finger pressed just next to the wound at his collarbone. It is not deep, and will heal before long, but for now stands out starkly.

“ _Explain this to me_ ,” in an antique dialect of Chemosan that may no longer be uttered by any human tongue.

“ _A lone sniper, in the conflict. They flew over our station, on a journey of suicide. They were lucky._ ”

“ _The opposing approach had no airborne units._ ” There is no word for _enemy_ , not in a sense of a huge, impersonal attacking force. There are only terms of _personal disagreement,_ of _us_ and _them_ , of _our view_ and _conflicting view_.

“ _They had one. They wasted it attempting to remove me or another official._ ”

“ _They were foolish_.” Arms wrap around his back and he leans in, their contact intimate but not sensual. “ _But they hit you. I would punish them for their error a hundred thousand times over._ ” Except it is not expressed as ‘hundred times thousand’, but as something analogous to ‘1x105’. “ _If they still lived. It is fortunate for them that they are dead._ ”

“ _I’m sure they would be grateful to you for that_ , my lord.” There is no title in that language that he feels is appropriate for a primarch, even though it means appending clumsy syllables of Gothic to his sentence.

For what it’s worth, the primarch doesn’t seem to mind, and smiles as he holds Vespasian close. Their fingers link on one side, hanging below the water. Vespasian’s other hand rests on his lord’s upper arm: casual though their interaction might seem, it would be too bold a step to mirror the gentle grasp encircling his waist. That is for the likes of equals.

“ _May I do you the courtesy of washing you, my darling?_ ” He uses a term of deep endearment, reserved for those who are not only friends, companions, perhaps lovers, but who would stay even if you were dying, to take your hand and wish you well into the afterlife. Vespasian shivers at the thought. Slow sickening and gradual demise are not the constants of life on their home world that they used to be, but the expression of feelings remains the same.

“ _Of course_ , _my life-guide,_ ” he replies. Hardly translatable in Gothic; the being that he works for – not only his superior but the one who clears a pathway through existence for both of them. A trusted mentor who in turn trusts him to make certain decisions – but only certain ones. A symbiosis of master and servant, employer and employee, primarch and marine.

He feels it’s fitting.


	4. First Love

Vespasian lies with his head cradled on his primarch’s arm, another wrapped loosely around him. The sunlight draws wide stripes across both of them, here on the roof of the world where the glittering spires of the city pierce the cloud and the cold and brittle wind is thwarted by glass. He is caged softly in his lord’s embrace, and he would be nowhere else in the universe.

“Do you still remember your first love?” The question is beside his ear, and it makes him open his eyes briefly to the expanse above them. The sky has so many colours, and all of them are glorious.

“I do, my lord. Why do you ask?”

“Many of them don’t.”

That is all the answer he needs. The conditioning, and the decades intervening, cause human memories to grow indistinct - overlaid with those sharp and infallible scenes experienced as Astartes. It is possible, even, to forget being human. If one is lucky, the retained memories are usually those of youth, however it went: feast or famine, carefree play or fight for survival, first kiss or first kill.

He settles himself more comfortably (as if that’s possible) and smiles up at the heavens.

“I loved my friends and my family, as a child, and my brothers in the legion. But I know what you mean - the first true love, the one who stole my heart forever.”

“I do. Go on.”

“I was still young,” Vespasian says, “much younger than I am now. I knew nothing of the worlds beyond my home. I was restless for change, I wanted more… and when I passed the trials of the legion, I knew I would leave everything behind. And then I met him.” He sighs softly. “It took a while, but I finally came face to face with him one day, and it was as if time itself stood still. He was all I would ever want, all I would ever need. Even if he never touched me, I would be glad just for his presence.

“You know of the problems facing pairs in the legions, my lord. We would be kept apart by our duties, and we differed in rank - which can affect a relationship, it’s well known. But I - a young warrior still, no more than a century - idolised him. I would do anything to be within his sight. I was full of myself, in those days. I could never accept that he would scold me for my arrogance. But I saw what it did to others, how their hubris destroyed them and their lovers both… and I bettered myself, for him. I became the sort of commander he would want me to be, and I realised that I even liked myself more for it.

“We took every precious moment we could, but I will always regret that I couldn’t be there for him when it mattered, when he was besieged. He pushed me away, and I went - I suppose I was reluctant to question him. He changed, and there was nothing I could do. I was afraid he hated me.”

“Afraid?” The primarch’s voice breaks into his musings.

“Yes, my lord. If there’s a more suitable word, I don’t know what it could be. ‘Worry’ is too mild, for the pain in your hearts, the dread in your veins, when you know your love might reject you the next time you see him - might try to harm you, even, and you would gladly fall on his sword because… because life without him is nothing. And it seems nicer to die surely by his hand than by that of an unknown enemy, wishing that it was his touch that bore you to rest.”

“And what did he do?”

“He couldn’t do it, my lord. My first and only love was a true one, and despite the urgings of the darkest powers… he couldn’t bring himself to raise arms against me.” His tone drops to a whisper. “But you know that already.” The great serpentine tail whispers across his skin like silk as it tightens around him to pull him closer.

He reaches back, without fear, and the sky disappears behind the primarch’s molten gaze. There is a halo of sunlight behind his horns, and the irony is not lost on Vespasian. He presses a soft kiss to a fanged mouth.

“I will never hurt you. I promise.” The words are felt rather than heard. “Please, you’ll stay with me?”

“How can I not?” Vespasian does truly want to stay, forever, but it’s hard. The daemon prince sometimes mourns for the past, and sometimes for the future, and it is difficult to tell which is which. All he can do is stay present. “I believe there’s nowhere else to go.”


End file.
